As Summer Rushed In
by Anthimaeria
Summary: Draco discovers that his new home with Harry isn’t such a grim old place after all. NOTE: Canon compliant through HBP only. This is a PG rated version of a previously R rated fic, revised for FF. HarryDraco, slash.


**Author's Notes:** This is a little romance ficlet set in my Spark, Tremble & Sigh universe (no need to read the other fics first). It was written pre-DH, and is only canon-compliant through the Sectumsempra scene in HBP. If you're over 18 and are interested in reading the other fics in the series, please check out my master fic page linked in my profile. Unfortunately, I cannot post them here due to the rating.

**Disclaimer:** All characters are the copyrighted works of J.K Rowling. No profit was made by the writing of this story, nor was any malice intended in any way, shape or form to the author.

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Draco heaved the paper sack down on the floor next to the stairs and peeled off his damp shirt in a single motion. "So bloody hot out there!" he groaned as he sprawled out on a lower step, his heels resting on the once impressive, now mildewed Oriental carpet.

Inside was much better, Draco decided. 12 Grimmauld Place was always cool, almost sepulchral, even in the humid heat of mid-July. An ancient musty smell reminding him of old books and feathers lingered in the air, just as it had when he was nine, visiting with his parents. Old Mrs Black was still alive in those days, and young Draco always gave her a wide berth, fearful of her snarled, jagged grin and her attempts to entice him with home-cured toadstools instead of sweets. Even now, the hairs on the back of his neck would stand up when he heard her portrait screeching, and he'd edge closer to Harry, almost the way he'd done with his mother on previous visits.

Harry hefted his own sack in his arms meaningfully. "Let's put this stuff away," he encouraged.

"Can't," Draco said. He shook his head and flung off his shoes, one at a time. "I need to cool off. This is _killing_ me."

It had been just a day since he and Harry had left Snape's house where Draco had been hiding, only to find that their new home wasn't well stocked at all. In fact, the pantry was nearly barren save for a few tins of nuts and a dusty box of vintage Christmas crackers. Not having house-elves, they had no choice but to venture out in search of provisions. In Muggle London, to boot. Half the stores in Diagon Alley were closed, and it wasn't safe for Draco to be seen by wizard folk, as the rumours and controversy over his alleged involvement in Dumbledore's murder hadn't died down as he'd foolishly hoped.

Draco had grimaced that morning as he donned the ill-fitting Muggle clothes borrowed from Harry. He would have much preferred to wear the new summer robes that Harry had given him as a gift for his seventeenth birthday, the grey-coloured silk tissue-thin and soft as gossamer. But he understood that wearing his new robes or any wizard clothing at all was out of the question-- he would have stood out like a unicorn among horses at the farmers' market, surrounded by hordes of Muggles. He'd never seen so many of them together at once, but the smell wasn't nearly as awful as he'd imagined.

The throngs pushed forward, dallying at the fruit and vegetable stalls, calling and laughing. Draco felt crowded, and his hand sought and found Harry's. Harry squeezed back, sending a wave of warmth through Draco that he felt down to his very bones. Harry was all he'd ever wanted, and now he had him, heart and body. It seemed impossible now that he'd ever thought that Harry was straight, but he had, and not so very long ago. Potter's sexuality had seemed so obvious-- it was all in the casual way he slapped Weasley on the back, his wide, easy stride through the halls of Hogwarts, the eager smiles he aimed at Chang and at Weasley's sister. Smiles that were never meant for any boy, and certainly not for Draco. For him, even being punched in the stomach was a privilege, just to see Potter's pink flush of anger as he lost control. The mere thought of what Potter's face might look like when he was aroused only made him needle Potter more.

Thankfully, Quidditch had provided a legitimate excuse to be near Potter without getting in trouble, and maybe, if he were lucky, a chance to touch his hand or leg or shoulder. He couldn't wait for night to fall after a match with Gryffindor, for it was then that he could perform his favourite ritual. Naked, he'd slide on the Quidditch gloves that had touched Potter, and lie on top of the bedcovers, stroking himself. The leather always chafed and left him sore, but it was well worth it for the delicious sensation that he felt when he imagined Potter bending him over a bench and taking him roughly, or Potter reaching for him atop his broom, unable to resist a lure greater than any Snitch. Sometimes he would find himself in tears afterwards, the despair he'd tried to bury rising in his throat and cutting through the soft haze of pleasure.

But never had he been so glad to have been proven wrong. Draco smiled, trailing a thumb over the hand he held until he brushed the carved surface of Harry's silver engagement ring, a twin of the one Draco wore on his opposite hand. It had been such fun introducing Harry to sex, seeing his green eyes widen when Draco showed him something new, and being rewarded with his enthusiastic reciprocation. Harry never did anything halfway; he loved as passionately as he raged, bringing the same fervour and intensity to making love that he brought to defensive spells and Quidditch. He knew when to hold back and when to press forward, when to tease and when to pound into Draco with all his might, sending Draco straight to blissful oblivion.

And now Harry startled Draco by suddenly letting go of his hand. "Peaches?" he asked, plucking a fuzzy golden fruit from the top of a neatly stacked pyramid.

Draco nodded; the tantalizing, heady fragrance had reached him before he managed to catch a glimpse of the source. "Definitely," he replied.

Their bags filled nearly to the top, he and Harry walked a short distance, then squeezed themselves and their packages into a small enclosure Harry called a "telefoambooth" in order to Apparate home unnoticed.

It was really quite tiring, this business of food shopping; Draco didn't know how Muggles and common wizards managed to do it, week after week. He would have to talk to Harry about arranging for owl delivery.

"Come on, lazybones," Harry urged, his tone amused, gentle.

Draco closed his eyes and yawned. "Not right now, Potter," he mumbled. "Resting."

He heard the even thuds of Harry stepping over to him, then felt something cool and bumpy against his lips, Harry's voice following."Tell me what you think."

Draco obliged, opening his mouth. Eyes still closed, he revelled in the vibrant flavour; firm and juicy, a strawberry. A single drop of nectar rolled off his lower lip and spilled down his chin.

"Mmmm… sweet," he murmured, and kissed Harry with his berry-stained lips to give him a taste.

"Know what else is sweet?" Harry asked softly, resting his head on Draco's shoulder.Draco shifted.

"Don't say _me_, or I'm going to stick my finger down my throat."Harry chuckled. "Perhaps I should show you and not tell you."

He threw his arms around Draco, but Draco wasn't ready for it, his pale head falling back with a jolt and smacking against the banister. Harry's face fell as he paused, kissing him and apologizing. He held his wand to Draco's head and whispered a rapid incantation until Draco nodded, and Harry held him more tenderly, his hand now protectively shielding the back of Draco's head.

The entrance hall filled with the sound of the creaking and shaking of the stairs. Harry and Draco's gasping and moaning all but drowned out the grumbling of the hall portraits, which were muttering loudly with disapproval.

Harry manoeuvred down several steps on his haunches, carrying Draco on his lap, until he was at the foot of the stairs, and leaned forward, easing Draco backwards onto the carpet. Kneeling, his palms supporting the back of Draco's thighs, Harry lay down beside his lover. He whispered three hasty syllables into the curve of Draco's ear, and Draco sighed happily, rolling closer to rest his head against Harry's chest. Just when he found he could speak again and repeated Harry's words, the long-shuttered windows flew open with a rusty squeak, flooding the dim room with light as summer rushed in.

A warm breeze swept over their bodies, and a fresh sweet scent pervaded the house as the portraits cried out, grumbling and covering their painted eyes at the intrusion. And for a moment, it seemed as though the scratchy carpet fibres had become blades of grass, and the crumbling plaster ceiling had given way to a broad blue sky. Fine tendrils burst forth from the ground, gently twining around their wrists and ankles. Their heads grew heavy with the humming of bees, and fallen tree blossoms lay scattered around them like fragile confetti, but it was still 12 Grimmauld Place-- the same as it had ever been, yet not. And Draco and Harry embraced, forever safe in the bower of their home.


End file.
